The Single Dad's Redemption

She could see the Aspen Creek gossip mill churning if she didn’t make things perfectly clear. “Actually, he might work at my store for a couple weeks while he’s waiting for his truck. But I was just driving by and didn’t see it on any of your lifts.”

“It’s parked out back.”

Relief washed through her. “Thanks.”

“I’ll get to it as soon as I can. But maybe you’ll want him to stick around longer.” Red grinned and reached over to give her a pat on the shoulder with a beefy paw. “I’ve never been one to stand in the way of true love, you know.”

She cringed at the way he warbled out the last words.

Red had always liked to tease her whenever she’d stopped here with Dad as a little girl. Now she wished she hadn’t come by to snoop. “Nothing of the kind,” she said firmly. “He’s just a potential employee.”

Red gave her a knowing look as he took another bite of his sandwich. “Whatever you say, darlin’. Whatever you say.”

That meant the diner crowd would likely be hearing another chapter of her life the next time Red stopped in for his favorite rhubarb pie.

She was just climbing into her Honda SUV when Red came to the open door of his shop. “Your cowboy stopped by just an hour ago and fetched the rest of his camping gear from the back of his truck. If you need to find him, check out the Aspen Creek Campgrounds. But keep an eye on the weather, honey. Looks like more storms are rolling in.”

“Thanks, Red.” Turning for Dad’s two-story brick house on Cedar, she flipped on the radio and mulled her options as she drove through town. Okay, Lord. Unless You give me a big sign, I’m going to give that cowboy another chance to say yes.

As she pulled to a stop in front of her father’s house, her heart fell. “Dad? What on earth...?”

She shouldered on her Marmot rain jacket and hurried up the cement walk leading to his front porch, where Paul North sat on the porch swing in a wet short-sleeved shirt, huddled into himself and obviously chilled to the bone. “You’ll catch pneumonia out here. Why aren’t you inside?”

He shot an irritable glance at her. “Bart.”

“The dog?” She glanced around the empty front yard. “Where is he?”

He hiked a thumb toward the house. “He must’ve jumped against the door and shut it while I was getting my mail.”

Right. She shut her eyes briefly at the thought of her elderly father walking the two blocks to the post office then losing his keys. “You went in the rain? Without a jacket?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he snapped.

“This is important, Dad. What if I hadn’t stopped by? What if it was colder outside? You could end up in the hospital.” She fingered through her keys and unlocked the heavy oak front door. “Do you remember where we put your extra keys after the last time you got locked out?”

“Of course I do. They’re gone.”

She went to the farthest brick pillar supporting the porch roof, felt for the single loose brick, retrieved the slim metal box behind it and held it up for him to see. “Right in here, Dad.”

He gave her hand a blank look then shrugged. “Then you didn’t put them back right the last time. Too far back.”

Stifling an exasperated sigh, she held the door open for him and ushered him inside. He’d locked himself out before—without the unlikely help of his crotchety, lazy old dog—hence the keys hidden at both the front and back doors. He was just seventy-three, but now the trick was for him to remember where they were.

One more sign that his independence was fading and her responsibility for him had to increase—despite his stubborn refusal. “You need one of those medical alert necklaces, Dad. Push a button and help is on the way.”

He visibly shuddered. “Over my dead, cold body.”

“Or if you’d just put your cell phone in your pocket every morning and keep it there, you could call for help if you locked yourself out or fell—”

“I’m not an invalid,” he growled as he shuffled across the kitchen to the central hallway and the staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms. “I’m going up to take a hot shower.”

Frustration welled up in her chest as she watched him disappear down the hall. She stopped by as often as she could and never knew what she might find. “I’ll be back in an hour and make some supper, okay?” she called out to him.

“Suit yourself.” A few minutes later she heard the distant slam of his bedroom door.

Even on his best days he could be short-tempered—especially if anything occurred to highlight his lapses in memory or judgment. She understood that he feared the eventual loss of his independence, she really did.

But still.

Was it too much to expect a bit of kindness from him when she tried to help? He often seemed to think she was an enemy now. She sighed heavily as she looked heavenward and prayed for patience.

I’m trying my best, God. Please—just give me strength and help me keep him safe.

She touched the local weather app on her iPhone, glanced at yet another line of approaching rain on the Doppler radar screen and hurried to her car.

There’d been no responses to her Help Wanted ad in the paper today, so she would try to find Connor, ask him one last time and pray he would agree.

It was probably a waste of time trying to track down someone who didn’t want to work for her. Once again, he was going to refuse.

But with just seven days until the biggest tourist weekend of the year, what were the chances of finding anyone else in time?

* * *

With rain falling yet again, starting a campfire was hopeless. Connor grabbed his shaving kit, a towel and change of clothes, and headed for the two-sided, concrete-block pavilion that offered shade and shelter for a dozen picnic tables, with restrooms and shower facilities in the attached building behind.

He settled on one of the picnic tables under the dim illumination of a hanging lightbulb and pulled out an old Lee Child novel from his kit. But his thoughts kept wandering and he finally tossed the book aside to stare out at the rain as his memories flooded back.

Josh in his fuzzy purple pajamas, laughing as he raced around the house to avoid story time because that meant bedtime. Making motor noises as he played with his tractors, pretending he was plowing the carpet.

The fresh, clean scent of him after bath time, his cheeks rosy and his dark, wet hair standing up in spikes that made him imagine he was a dinosaur.

He’d been four then; would he remember any of those days? Anything at all? Or would he be frightened when he saw Connor again for the first time in years? If I can get you back, you’re going to have a safe, happy life, little cowboy—I promise you that.

The boy’s life sure hadn’t started that way.

The marriage had been troubled from the beginning, starting with the cute buckle bunny who’d swept Connor off his feet. He had never regretted Joshua’s arrival—not for a second. But the shotgun marriage was something he and Marsha had both come to regret.

They’d been just twenty-one. He’d had to follow the rodeo circuit, while she’d resented being trapped at home with an unplanned baby. Their initial mutual infatuation had quickly dimmed.

But Connor hadn’t wanted a divorce. He’d prayed that he and Marsha could find some calm middle ground—maybe even come to love each other—to give their child a stable, peaceful home.

Just more prayers that God hadn’t seen fit to answer.

During his last year in prison, he’d tried attending Bible study for a while, needing something—anything—that could give him answers and a sense of peace about his past in the midst of the desolation he’d felt over his incarceration. He hadn’t found the answers he’d wanted.

Hard-hearted, just like your dad.

The words came out of nowhere—as loud and clear as if the accusation had been spoken inside his head.